51. Chapter 51
fifty-one
Skye
Iwake to the sound of cartoons drifting from the living room and the clinking of dishes. For a second, I’m disoriented. Then the heaviness in my chest and the sting behind my eyes remind me where I am. And why.
I’m still wrapped in Boston’s blanket, still warm, still in his bed and surrounded by his scent. And, god, I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to face Cassie and Bronx who are clearly awake now, yet still clueless about what happened to their big brother.
But there’s no escaping it, only prolonging it. So I pull back the blanket, shivering, even though the apartment isn’t cold.
It’s just past six. Still dark outside. Winter makes the nights feel endless.
I close my eyes and go still, willing myself to feel him somehow. But there's nothing. Only the sharp jab of tears behind my eyelids. I take a deep breath to compose myself.
I get dressed quickly. As I reach for my coat, my breath catches.
Blood stains the light wool fabric. It must’ve transferred from Jake’s jacket.
He was covered in it. I turn the coat inside out.
The last thing I want to do is freak out the kids.
I glance down to make sure there aren’t any stains on my dress, then force a smile before stepping into the living room.
“Skye!” Cassie shrieks, running to wrap her arms around my waist. Bronx follows, colliding into me with a gap-toothed grin.
“Hi guys,” I say, crouching to hug them. They look great. Well-rested, fed, happy, their little faces bright and rosy. And just like that, I decide that the best thing to do right now is lie.
Because what would I even tell them? That Boston got hurt? That there were sirens and blood and chaos? That I don’t know if he’s okay? I need answers before I break their hearts.
“I missed you,” Bronx mumbles into my shoulder.
“I missed you, too,” I whisper, truthfully. But I miss Boston more. I miss him with every cell in my body.
“Hey, listen, guys,” I say gently. “Boss had to run out last night. He asked me to stay with you, but he’s not back yet. Not sure when he will be. So, how about I drop you off with my mom for a little bit so I can take care of a few things?”
They race off to get dressed, abandoning their cereal and cartoons.
I head back to Boston’s room and spot his hoodie hanging on the closet door.
There’s no way I’m wearing that blood-stained coat, and it’s too cold for just my dress.
I pull the hoodie over my head. It swallows me, hanging past my thighs like a sweater dress, but it’s warm, and it smells like him.
I press the fabric to my face and breathe him in.
I brace for what awaits us as we walk outside, but the bloody snow has been cleared away. There’s no trace left of what took place last night.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at my parents’ house. They stand in the kitchen, still in their pajamas and… they’re on the phone. With Orson Longfellow.
I whisper to Cassie and Bronx to go wait in the living room, then quietly step into the kitchen to listen.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Mr. Longfellow says through the speaker. “Just standard protocol. An officer will meet you at your office in, let’s say, an hour.”
My mom nods. “Yes, of course. Let me just get dressed and I’ll head on over.”
“That’s perfect. Thank you, Brandy. Let’s figure out a day to have dinner. I know Stella is eager to get your input on the wedding,” he says, light and cheerful. Like nothing happened at all.
My mom ends the call and sets her phone on the counter, frowning. “I don’t like that this happened at the apartments. I want the people living there to feel safe. After everything they’ve escaped…” She trails off.
Every cell in my body is buzzing. Something’s off. Something’s wrong. And it’s not just the fake-happy way Orson Longfellow signed off, like this was a routine check-in. There’s no way he can be chipper like that when his son put a bullet in the boy I lo… into Boston less than twelve hours ago.
“I know, baby,” my dad says, pressing a kiss to her temple.
I clear my throat. “Did Mr. Longfellow call because of the shooting last night?”
My parents look at me, surprised.
“Yeah,” my dad says with a nod. “Orson wanted to give us a heads-up that an officer was going to stop by your mom’s office to get some information. Courtesy, since you’re his future daughter-in-law and all.”
I flinch.
“Skye, how do you know about what happened?” my mom asks.
My face contorts. “Because… because Boss got hurt.”
My mom gasps.
“What? Oh my god,” my dad says, eyes wide.
“Did Mr. Longfellow say what kind of info they’re trying to obtain?” I ask, breathing shallow.
“No,” my dad says, his expression adequately conveying how shocked he is. “But if I had to guess, they probably want access to the security cameras. See if anything got picked up.”
A jolt fires through me. Of course Mr. Longfellow would want to know if there’s video of his son shooting someone.
“Mom,” I say, heart pounding. “Can you check? Can you pull up the footage now?”
She blinks. “Skye, sweetie, I don’t know if—”
“Please.” My voice cracks. “I need to see what happened.”
My mom hesitates for a heartbeat, then nods.
She walks to the laptop on the dining table, still propped open.
I bet she was working last night. That woman never stops.
She logs into the complex’s security interface and navigates to the right feed—camera five.
It’s angled toward the sidewalk, facing the parking lot.
I recognize Boston’s car, the walkway to his apartment, the thick blanket of snow covering the grass.
“Here,” my mom murmurs, clicking into the night’s timeline.
“It must have happened around one or one-thirty,” I say, eyes glued to the screen.
She forwards slowly until, finally, there’s motion. I stop breathing.
Boston steps into the frame. The picture is gray and grainy, but it’s definitely him.
I’d recognize him anywhere. Tall, muscular frame.
The unassuming way he moves. His hands are shoved into his pockets, shoulders shrugged up, shielding against the cold.
Why isn’t he wearing a jacket? Why is he even out there at—I glance at the time—1:44 in the morning?
He’s alone, but not for long. Headlights sweep across the screen. Ten more seconds—and suddenly Jake rushes into the frame, Archer trailing leisurely behind him.
My stomach flips when, without warning or even a discernible exchange of words, Jake punches Boston in the face. A fraction of a second later, they’re on the ground, Jake landing hit after hit while Boston tries to shield his head.
“Jesus Christ,” I whimper, hand flying to my mouth.
“Is that… That’s Jake?” my mom says, horrified.
The footage is silent, but I swear I can hear it anyway. The dull thuds. Boston’s muffled grunts. My own heartbeat thrumming in my ears.
It goes on until suddenly Jake freezes. God, I wish there was audio, because Boston’s saying something—and whatever it is, it’s working. Jake finally climbs off him. Boston gets to his feet, unsteady.
More words are exchanged. The boys stand facing each other, until—seemingly out of nowhere—Archer lunges, tackling Boston back to the ground.
My dad inhales sharply. My knees go weak.
“Slow it down,” I say hoarsely. “I want to see everything.”
My mom reduces the speed, moving frame by frame. Archer’s body slanted over Boston’s. Boston’s hands are up, protective, not hitting while Archer beats him viciously.
It’s twenty seconds of sickening violence before Jake manages to pull Archer off Boston.
Archer staggers upright. Boston’s still in the snow.
More soundless words, Archer pacing.
And then, the flash of a muzzle.
I don’t even see the gun in Archer’s hand until it’s too late. I can tell he shoots by the way his arm kicks with the recoil. Then he drops the weapon and takes off running out of the screen.
“Oh god,” my dad groans. My mom is frozen, hands clamped to her mouth.
The footage keeps playing. Jake drops to his knees beside Boston.
My heart is in my throat. I can’t look away.
“What? Why?” my dad stutters. “This… what happened?”
My mom closes the laptop slowly, as if not seeing it anymore might erase what we just witnessed.
My dad rests his forearms on the table, staring blankly ahead of him. “Do you know anything about this, Skye?” he asks, voice low. “Why this would’ve happened?”
I don’t answer right away.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I just shake my head as tears start slipping silently down my face. Again.
God, how do I have anything left?
“I… I have no idea,” I whisper, voice catching. “But I need to find out.”
I rub at my face and stand.
“Mom, I have to go. I need to talk to Archer. And Jake.”
My mom moves toward me. “Skye, are you sure that’s safe?”
I nod. “I talked to Jake last night,” I say. “Right after it happened. I stayed with Cassie and Bronx at Boston’s. They don’t know anything and I—” My voice breaks. “Can they stay with you? Just for a little while? I have to find out what’s going on.”
That earns me a long, stricken look from both of them, but my dad nods.
“Of course they can stay here,” he says, glancing toward the living room where Cassie and Bronx are curled up watching cartoons. “Don’t worry about them. I got it.”
My mom hesitates. “I’m heading into the office. Talk to that officer.”
“There’s gotta be some kind of explanation for this, Brandy,” my dad says, his hand curling gently around hers. “Some piece we’re missing.”
My mom doesn’t respond. She just presses her lips together.
The drive from my house to Archer’s takes less than ten minutes, but it feels way longer than that.
I don’t bother knocking.
I let myself in, then startle at the presence of not just Archer and his parents, but Jake and his mom, too. That kind officer from last night is here, too, mid-step like he’s about to leave.
Archer spots me and flies to his feet, rage flashing in his eyes. “Where have you been, Skye?”
“Not now, Archer,” his dad says sharply.
Archer clenches his jaw and sits back down.